


Some Boys Are Different

by alienchrist



Category: Gyakuten Saiban | Ace Attorney
Genre: Kink Meme, M/M, Romance, Smut, Transgender, Transsexual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-13
Updated: 2008-03-13
Packaged: 2017-10-04 07:51:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alienchrist/pseuds/alienchrist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miles was always different. Is that something Phoenix can accept?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Boys Are Different

Late autumn sunlight streamed through the windows of the elementary school's office. Gregory Edgeworth had become so familiar with this doorway he was sure he knew each brightly lit dust mote. On a chair right next to the door of the principal's office sat Myra. Beautiful, troubled Myra. Just before school started, she'd demanded to cut her long, silver hair. Gregory knew to pick his battles and braced himself for Myra's tears when her classmates teased her for looking like a boy. However, this was never the complaint Myra brought home. Instead, she asked, "Why did you have to name me Myra? Myra's a _girl's_ name."

Myra sat tracing one black tile with the corner of her saddle shoe, her arms crossed, her face drawn in scowl. She didn't look up at her father when he approached. He ruffled her hair, and she just huffed at him. "Oh Myra," he said. "What happened this time?"

She was only six. How much trouble could someone get into at kindergarten? His own memories of of the time involved memorizing the alphabet and singing songs about dinosaurs. Yet here she was, in trouble again. The school counselor put forth many theories as to his little girl's anger, but none of her suggestions seemed to make a dent in Myra.

"Said I wanted to be a defense attorney, just like my dad," Myra said gruffly.

"Did someone tease you? You know you can grow up to be anything you want, Myra. Being a girl has nothing to do with it."

"Jacob said I can't be just like you, because I'm a girl, so I punched him in the nose."

"Myra! I taught you better than that." Gregory frowned.

"He laughed at me! He called me a tomboy."

"Nobody likes being called names," Gregory said gently, "But just because someone hurts you doesn't mean you should do the same. Who cares if Jacob thinks you're a tomboy? What matters is what you feel."

"I care!" Myra choked out. "I'm not a tomboy!"

"No, I don't think you are," Gregory agreed. "But sometimes little girls who dress more boyishly get called tomboys. That's because people are ignorant. They don't really mean anything by it."

"I don't want to be called a tomboy!" Myra growled. "I'm not a tomboy."

"Well, I hate to tell you this, pumpkin, but people in this world judge by appearances. Maybe, if you'd like, I could buy you a few more outfits, ones that look less boyish, and you could--"

"No!" Myra all but shouted. When Gregory tried to interject, ask why, comfort her, anything, she just covered her ears. "No no no no no no no no!"

Gregory didn't realize at the time what his child was trying to tell him. At six, the poor kid hardly had any means to.

 

The years did not improve Myra's situation. Gregory was beside himself. He wanted to help her; after all, it pained him to see his child in so much pain. They went through therapists like Kleenex. Myra resented them all, especially the one that implied she might be struggling with lesbianism. Gregory saw no sign of that, considering she terrorized and chased after boys more than any other girl in her class.

The situation met its apex shortly after her eighth birthday. Myra started her menstrual cycle early. Gregory knew this day would come and thought himself prepared when she came to him crying in the middle of the night, telling him something horrible had happened. It was time for hot cocoa, neatly illustrated pamphlets, and a package of sanitary napkins. He'd rehearsed the whole thing in his head a dozen times. "You're growing up," Gregory said, a tear in his eye. "You're becoming a woman."

Myra rested her head on the table, silvery hair spread over her arms. She never grew her hair out. They got haircuts together, though Myra always complained the barber didn't cut hers short enough. "My stomach hurts," she mumbled.

"You can stay home from school tomorrow, if you'd like. I'll write the teacher a note."

Though Gregory knew Myra was incredibly smart, even seeking out books far beyond her reading level, she hated school and used any excuse not to go. He was concerned when the offer to stay home sick broached no reply, let alone the enthusiasm he expected. Myra must really be feeling bad.

She was still in bed when he left for court the next morning, curled up on a ball. "What do you say to curry from down the street when I come home, huh?" He smoothed his hand up Myra's back, and she made a muffled noise of protest. "Will that hurt your tummy too much?"

"I don't care!" Myra yelled from underneath the covers. "Just go away!"

Gregory sighed. "I'll be home soon, okay?"

"I SAID GO AWAY."

So he did. Gregory was distracted for the rest of the day, though a good enough lawyer not to show it in court. He was glad to get back home to his daughter, boxes of take out curry in his hands. The apartment was still dark, except one light in the bathroom. Had Myra been in bed all this time? He set the curry on the kitchen table and went to check on her.

Walking past the bathroom, he noticed the empty bottle of aspirin on the counter. In the five seconds it took for him to make the connection, he was completely calm. The phone seemed to materialize in his hand, and he dialed as he tried to rouse Myra. The ambulance ride was a blur. In the back of his head, Gregory laughed. Tonight he was an ambulance rider, not an ambulance chaser. Worry did weird things to your mind.

Fortunately, they were able to pump her stomach before too much damage was done. This was an intense relief, for even aspirin could do a lot of harm, and Myra was so young. He'd almost lost her. Gregory was dizzied. He knew the questions would come next, and he wasn't the least bit disturbed when a kind-looking woman with cats-eye glasses and a ponytail asked to speak to him. Gregory had seen her around, but his cases rarely involved child welfare so he wasn't well acquainted. Knowing he had nothing to gain from hiding the truth, he answered everything truthfully. She gave nothing away, so finally he asked, "Did you speak to Myra? She wouldn't say anything to me. Is she okay?"

The counselor crossed her legs, glancing over her clipboard. "Myra started her period yesterday, correct?"

"Right. The aspirin… it wasn't because of the cramps, was it? A whole bottle…"

"No, Mr. Edgeworth."

"Then was it because of her mother? Because she—"

"Myra told me she wanted to die, Mr. Edgeworth. This is very serious."

Gregory was certain he could hear the shatter of his own heart in his ears. "I've failed her," he whispered. "My little girl…"

"Myra adores you, actually. It's obvious she idolizes you, but she's conflicted."

"Is it because I spent so much time at work? If that's the problem, I'll—"

"Are you aware of the term 'gender identity disorder?'" The counselor interrupted quietly.

"Yes, in passing," Gregory said quickly. Then it dawned on him: "You think Myra has it? She thinks she's a boy?" Everything clicked together quickly. It wasn't even a very difficult mystery to solve once the possibility of an answer was presented.

"I'm going to give you a name of an expert," said the counselor. "Diagnosing so young is still controversial, but he may be able to help Myra. As long as you're willing to keep an open mind."

"Myra is my pride and joy," said Gregory. "I'll do anything, just so long as she's safe and happy."

 

Myra's new doctor, the expert, gave her a clear diagnosis of Gender Identity Disorder. There was some confusion as to how to proceed, but the doctor referred to models of young transsexuals in the Netherlands. The USA hadn't quite caught up to the legal and medical ramifications of a young GID diagnosis, but Gregory Edgeworth was ready to take every necessary step for his daughter (…no, his _son_). His legal prowess and success as lawyer made it possible. Myra's existence would be stricken from records and replaced with Miles. Miles would enter a new school where his female past was unknown. Only the administration would be the wiser.

Gregory immediately saw a change in his child. Miles blossomed into a bright, studious individual who looked forward to each new school day. When Miles told his father how he defended a kid accused of stealing his lunch money, every shred of doubt was destroyed. Miles was happy this way. So Gregory could be, as well.

The name change was the only real road bump. In the beginning, Miles wanted a very different name.

"How about Bruce Wayne? Bruce Wayne Edgeworth has quite a ring to it, don't you think?"

"You want to be named after Batman." Gregory gave his child a blank look.

"Sure! I want to be Batman when I grow up."

"I thought you wanted to be a defense attorney, like your old man."

"Can't I do both?"

"I suppose. But if your name is Bruce Wayne, don't you think people will suspect you of being Batman?"

"Good point. In that case, I think I want my name to be Miles!"

"Miles," said Gregory. "I like the sound of that."

At some point he asked Miles if it bothered him. So many doctor's appointments, testing and hormones, getting odd looks about not using urinals. "Not really," said Miles, straightening his bow tie. "After all, some boys are just different. Phoenix and Larry get teased at school for being different, too, but for different reasons. And they don't make fun of me."

"They sound like good friends," said Gregory, ruffling his son's silvery hair.

"They are!" said Miles, grinning. "They're the best!"

 

When Misty Fey called him back from the dead, Gregory Edgeworth had trouble answering questions. All he wanted to know is if Miles was being taken care of. The details of his death were immaterial. He needed to know that whoever adopted Miles would allow him to continue his journey.

Ironically, the disciplined and well, frankly rather _evil_ Manfred von Karma did not see it as his place to get in the way of Miles's treatment. Perhaps it was his more liberal German background, the fact he already had a daughter who was happy to be one, or his own penchant for wearing women's underwear, but he aided Miles in his transition in addition to mentoring him. He did, however, let it slip that he didn't _have_ to. This made Miles obedient. To the end, even faced with facts of his father's murder, Miles was grateful von Karma protected his secret. Franziska apparently never knew. Miles grew into a man many considered handsome, with an elegant face and broad shoulders. After Europe and surgeries, there was no possible way to tell that Miles was born a woman. At least, not without seeing him naked.

And no one ever saw him naked.

Though a certain defense attorney was certainly trying his damndest.

 

Phoenix Wright couldn't fucking take a hint.

It was hard not to be charmed by his enthusiasm. Miles could give him that. He was used to covering his emotions, though, hating the sound of his own voice when it became rushed with enthusiasm. Despite his every day confidence, Miles lived in fear of his secret being discovered. With sharks like Gant around every minute of the day, it was hard not to. But Phoenix got under his skin. Maybe he had a soft spot for the guy. After all, he was his first real friend.

He should have known it was trouble.

Even when there was glass or a courtroom between them, Miles could feel Wright touching him. It was a strange sensation, though not unpleasant. The weight of his gaze was warming. Losing against Wright drove him crazy, being acquitted by him drove him even crazier. It seemed that loser in his cheap suit was always a few steps behind him, speaking his name, Edgeworth, Edgeworth, Edgeworth. Didn't he ever shut up or go away? If he needed to slake his puppy dog affections on someone, couldn't he turn them to Maya, the girl with seemingly inflatable boobs? Why did Wright pick him? Pairing off would be the epitome of unprofessional. Why couldn't he just leave well enough alone?

Wright wanting him so openly just made his own attraction harder to bear.

His own libido had been in check for years, however, Mile's imagination accosted with him a hundred vivid sexual fantasies the moment he saw Wright. Hell, sometimes even hearing his name was enough to spur on his imagination to spin some raunchy tale. However, America was different than Europe, and so were the men. Miles knew better than to risk his secret. It would mean his ruin as a prosecutor. After so many close brushes with complete humiliation, he simply wasn't ready.

Wright didn't know this, of course, and pursued him in a manner that could only be described as dogged. Dinner after court soon became dinner and a movie, soon became "are you seriously working on a Saturday, let's go to the zoo," soon became, "It's midnight and I know you're still up, can I come over?"

Men don't move slowly. Their first dinner alone was so thick with the sparks of tension that Miles could smell the ozone. The goodnight kiss was a simple one, pressed to the doorframe, hair mussed. The wine had gone to his head, and Miles found himself _devouring_ Wright, unabashedly leaving teeth marks on his neck. Wright gasped, and accidentally pushed against the doorbell.

"Heh. Wanna come in?" Wright smirked, and Miles couldn't help but feel endeared to him. "I mean, I know it's not a great neighborhood but I still think people would object to us having sex in the hall."

Slowly, though everything in his body protested, Miles withdrew. "No, Wright. Not tonight."

"Can't you at least call me Phoenix?"

"It's unprofessional," Miles said stiffly.

"We're not exactly at work." The other man put arms around Miles.

"Not tonight, Phoenix." Miles carefully ducked out of Phoenix's embrace. He frowned at the crestfallen visage of his childhood friend. "I'm sorry."

 

And so it went on like this for what seemed like eternity, but was probably the better part of two months. Furtively they went about the business of dating. Late night visits became the norm, complete with late night make out sessions. Perhaps it was because Phoenix was lonely without his assistant, but it seemed they spent more time with each other than not. Miles began to understand his feelings were deeper than ordinary desire. He had a deep affection for Phoenix, and that just made everything worse.

One night, deep into their cups, Miles forgot himself a little. Phoenix had invited him over to his tiny apartment for dinners and some rental movie they quickly forgot about. Kissing was better, and Miles easily impressed his weight on Phoenix, laying him out over the couch, making his neck and shoulder as he loved to do. Just because he wasn't quite ready to go that extra step with Phoenix didn't mean they couldn't both use some gratification, right? He could feel Phoenix's cock outlined clearly through the fabric of his pants, hard and straining. Miles stroked him openly, delighting in the groans Phoenix gifted him with in return. Just as he unzipped Phoenix's pants and slipped his hand past the point of no return, he encountered a problem.

That would be Phoenix's hand attempting to grope him. Miles moved but couldn't get out of his reach, so he finally climbed off Phoenix and sat on the edge of the couch. Phoenix sat up, staring at him. "You okay?" He was used to Miles stopping abruptly. Dating – if that's what they were doing could be called – seemed to be a chronic case of blue balls. Frustrating, yes, but Phoenix was not a teenager. He considered Miles to be worth the wait.

"Yes – I – you don't have to return the favor. You know. I'd rather you not, actually. It's fine for me, if I can just touch you."

Phoenix rubbed Miles's shoulder. "I'm willing to wait until you're comfortable. I'm not in this because I want you to blow me or whatever. When it happens between us, I want it mutual, okay? That's just how I am. I care for you, you know?"

Miles sighed, slouching forward, rubbing his temples with his thumb and forefinger. "I want it too, there are just complications."

"That's fine, neither of us are going anywhere."

Why did Phoenix have to be the last decent guy on the planet? This was too weird. He ought to just leave, but Phoenix's eyes said stay and after a moment Miles decided the silence had been too much too long. "I… I have something serious I need to tell you."

"Oh, in that case, just a second." Phoenix zipped up his pants.

"I have my reasons for not wanting to be touched. Please trust me when I say it isn't you at all. I've just got… body issues."

"Someone hurt you, didn't they?" Phoenix asked quietly. "Was it von Karma? Did he sexually abuse you?"

"I'm… what? Excuse me? Why would you think that?" Miles thankfully kept his composure, even though it was clear Phoenix's question caught him off guard.

"You're so… closed. And he's such a raging psycho. I mean I know you looked up to him, but if anyone ever fit the profile of an abuser, it's him."

"You're very observant, Wright—"

"Phoenix? Please?"

"—But as usual, you're incorrect."

"Was it Gant, then?"

"Gant? You really are an idiot, aren't you?"

Phoenix narrowed his eyes in that way he often did when he wasn't about to let something go. "No need to get defensive."

"How is it that you complain I never speak of myself, then when I do you won't let me get a word in edgewise?" Miles griped.

"I'm sorry, Miles. Please tell me. I'm listening."

"I'm a transsexual."

Phoenix didn't even try to hide his shock. "You want to be a woman? Is that what all the pink is about?"

"No. I was born a girl." His voice was suddenly quieted to the point of being nearly inaudible. "And I've said before, it's magenta, there's a difference. Nothing says a man can't wear magenta."

"But wait, how did you? And then? But? What? Huh?"

Miles just shook his head as Phoenix dug himself a deeper and deeper hole. Finally out of the coherence came this misguided realization:

"So wait, you're really a girl? That totally makes sense! All this time I've been completely in love with you and weirded out because I'm not gay, but if you're not really a man that means I'm not really gay!"

"Could you _be_ more insensitive?" Miles stood up. "I am a man. I am more of a man than you'll ever be, in fact."

Phoenix stood up as well,. "Don't do this to me Miles. Whatever's going on with you, with your gender, I don't care, okay? Don't use this an excuse to shut me out. It's you I love, not your genitals, so I don't see why—"

Miles slapped the hand that threatened to touch his shoulder away. "How could you love me? You don't know the first thing about me."

The walls were closing in on Miles. How did he find himself here in this shitty apartment that could only be described as the first stage of squalor? How did he find himself here with a confused straight man who couldn't possibly understand his struggles? Phoenix was talking again, but none of the words reached Miles ears.

He walked out, slamming the door behind him.

Running away was simple when you had connections in another country. Flights were hopped, arrangements were made, and Miles Edgeworth ran away from home for about a year. Let Phoenix sit in the mess he made. When Miles returned, it was under new pretenses. He helped return Phoenix's innocent assistant from the clutches of danger, and all that. After all of it, he found himself sitting in his old apartment, staring at his tea kettle, waiting for it to whistle.

It was good to be back in America. Miles loved Europe, but in his year there nothing could tear his mind off his home. All he wanted to do was run at first. His reputation was in pieces. His memories of his father's murder were refreshed and von Karma's true nature pierced his stomach like a drill bit. Above those horrible thoughts there was the personal humiliation of the confusion in Wright's eyes when he learned the truth and in that bumbling, straightforward way of his made it all too clear he would never understand. He was just like all the others. He didn't see Miles as a real man because he was a transsexual. He saw Miles as confused and strange, but that was not the case. If anyone was confused, it was Wright.

_If you're not really a man, that means I'm not really gay!_ Why did it always come down to that with men? Usually Miles had the reverse problem, gay men thinking that their attraction to him made them straight. Americans especially had this problem, wanted things in set boxes, didn't like what made them question themselves. They simply refused to see a transsexual as a simple person with a biological irregularity. No, it always had to be some sexuality-deciding issue. Just like gender, sexuality was this vast, immobile core of a person. Miles was glad he got away from it for a while, though he came back.

Not because the prosecutor's office needed him, though he did.

Not because he wanted to see how Franziska was doing, though he did.

No, it came down to that ignoramus, Wright. It always did.

After a long court case involving kidnappings, a sociopath actor, a hit man and samurai costumes, how was it he still found himself thinking of Wright? How was it no other detail called out to him but the completely irritating thought of his face?

In Europe Miles had met many beautiful men, open minded ones. Once, in the middle of making out with a lovely, pale-haired German boy, he blurted his secret. He smiled and said Miles was his ideal mate. The sex was amazing, but after several hours, he gave up trying to get Miles to come.

"Are you drunk? Something's wrong. Your heart's not in it."

And that's how it was with every single one. Miles wasn't so typically ravenous for recreational sex, but he wanted to prove to himself he didn't need Wright. Only he wound up proving the opposite.

That man always turned everything around.

After the kettle sang, Miles placed leaves in an infuser. He poured the hot water into the kettle to start a new pot of tea. Nothing quite went with melancholy like earl grey. It made him think of a rainy morning in London.

A knock on the door interrupted Miles from his reverie. He glanced at the clock. It was one in the morning, who had the nerve to bother him at this hour?

Remembering the latest scare with the assassin, Miles armed himself with a poker from the fireplace that quite honestly wouldn't save his life despite the fencing lessons von Karma insisted on. Luckily, Shelly de Killer was not at the door. It was Phoenix Wright, his hair and spirit obviously deflated. The way he stood could only be described as slouching and sloppy.

_I really need to take him shopping, he's embarrassing like that,_ Miles found himself thinking. Then he remembered he hadn't seen the man in ages, and they were no longer together in any sense.

"Wright," Miles said softly.

The defense attorney eyed Miles's weapon dubiously. "Look, I know you're mad, but you of all people should know bludgeoning someone with a blunt object gets blood _everywhere_ and you're bound to miss some when you clean."

Miles put the poker back in front of the fireplace. "Come in," he said stiffly. "Shoes off at the door."

"Thanks. You know, I realized something. When we were dating, you never let me in here." Phoenix sat down, bouncing slightly on the couch to test its give. Once he settled, he set his sock feet on the glass-topped coffee table.

"Feet _off_ the table," said Miles, and then muttering, "That would be why." Mere moments and he was already irritated with Wright beyond reconciliation. How could the man smile so brightly after what happened today? How could he grin at the gender-variant freak that almost tricked him into homosexual activity? "I thought you would be spending the rest of the evening with Maya and Pearl."

"Would you sit when I talk to you? Don't stand at attention. It's been ages, and I wanted to see you alone."

Reluctantly, Miles sat on the edge of the sofa opposite Wright.

"Pearl wouldn't let Maya out of her sight," Phoenix explained. "She wanted to sleep in Maya's bed. Anyway, Maya said she'd stay until Pearl was asleep, but I checked on them 15 minutes later and they were both dead to the world."

"I suppose they are lucky to have one another. Maya is a good older sister figure in Pearl's life. Having her gone must've really shaken her."

"You know, I could say the same for you."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You're a good older brother figure in Franziska's life. Having you gone must've really shaken her."

"Franziska can manage without me," Miles muttered. "You all were better off without me."

"Miles Edgeworth chooses death," said Wright, shaking his head. "Honestly, I knew you didn't have it in you."

"I'm glad you think so highly of me," Miles replied dryly.

"But doesn't this whole thing prove that we _did_ need you? Without your help, we would've fallen apart. I would've lost Maya, and with Maya gone… Mia and Pearl too, probably. Everyone needs you. Everyone missed you. Gumshoe was like a puppy without his master, it was pretty pathetic."

"Ah." Miles looked away, anywhere but at him. He knew if he met those blue eyes he wouldn't be able to look anywhere else. That frightened him somehow.

"Miles. Things didn't end on the best of terms with us, and I really want to apologize. I'm not the sharpest cheese in the dairy, so to speak."

"Wright, I swear sometimes I have no idea—"

"Phoenix. Please call me Phoenix."

"Phoenix," Miles sighed, "I swear sometimes I have no idea what you're talking about." He didn't realize it, but just in speaking the name, Miles relaxed a little.

"About you being a transsexual. Female-to-male. I messed up big-time, and I'm really, really sorry. I pushed my issues about us on you, and I said the wrong thing. That must've really hurt after all you've been through. I meant what I said about loving you, though. To be honest, I couldn't start thinking of you as a woman after finding out. Nothing about that added up in my mind. You're a man, and I love you. Please give us another chance."

Miles realized he could not avoid Phoenix's gaze anymore, so he met it. After a long moment, catching himself when he felt like falling, Miles said, "I meant what I said too. You know nothing about me. You can't love me."

Phoenix lifted his hand just a moment, brushed a few strands of Miles's hair out of his face. It came to rest on Miles's knee. They both found it rather comfortable there. "I know when you were nine you defended me, even though if I'd known your secret I probably would've teased you like all the other kids."

"It was the right thing to do."

"I know you helped me on cases even though it meant losing in court."

"Why should I care about my record? The truth is what matters."

"I know you trusted me completely with your life when you were accused of murder."

"You're a good attorney."

"And you're a good man, Miles." Phoenix kissed him. It was soft, intense and movie-perfect. Miles pulled away. He rested his forehead against Phoenix's shoulder. Phoenix embraced him; his hand crept up carefully, stroking the hair near the nape of his neck. "I can't believe how strong you are," Phoenix said after many long minutes of contented silence. "Not only did you survive your father's death and von Karma's abuse—"

"You are not going to let this 'von Karma abused you' thing go, are you?" Miles muttered darkly.

"But being born in the wrong body. All of the medical things, and the doctors even though you were just a kid. That must have taken amazing strength. I can't imagine going through something like that."

"What choice did I have?" Miles spoke to the fabric of Phoenix's collar. The rough, cheap material seemed comforting to his lips, somehow.

"Death," said Phoenix reasonably. "You could have really chosen death. I read the statistics about transgender teens, and…"

Miles looked up at him. "I tried. I couldn't stand it, when I first got my period. It was then I knew I wouldn't be happy as a woman, so what was the point? Can you imagine? I was eight years old and I wanted to die. I was unhappy all the time."

"I'm sorry," Phoenix, completely at a loss. His words were lame in the air.

"Sorry? You don't know what it's like thinking you're disgusting, like something's wrong with you. I didn't have a choice but to go through those things. You have no idea. You'll never know how lucky you were to be born a biological male, with everything working and in order." Miles was ashamed to realize he was near tears. He took a deep breath and collected himself.

"No," Phoenix agreed. "I'll never have any idea. All I know is that I love you. Even if it caused you pain, the things you went through made you who you are today. I wish you didn't have to go through the pain, but just the same, I love you as you are today, so I'm glad you lived through it."

"You keep saying you love me."

"I do."

"Well, I think that settles it."

"Settles what?" Phoenix blinked.

"You're the girl in the relationship." Miles smirked and kissed him.

"Oh I am, am I?" Phoenix pushed Miles back on the couch, climbing on top of him. Miles fought him for dominance, attacking that spot beneath his ear that he knew would turn Phoenix to jelly. In return, Phoenix pinned his hands over his head. "I've missed you so much. Even when we were together before, you'd never let me take the lead. Let me this time."

Miles glared up at him. "That's not what I do. Besides, y… you might not like what you see."

"I already like what I see," said Phoenix, undoing Miles's cravat as carefully as possible. This was not carefully enough for Miles's taste, actually, but this was not the time to make pointless objections.

By the time the clothes were off, Miles was trembling and he wasn't sure why. Phoenix's touches were firm and insistent, but they held an air of personal tenderness he'd never experienced before. He trailed kisses down Miles's taut stomach, over sharply jutting hipbone before pausing, breathing over his swollen sex.

"It might look a little weird to you," Miles interrupted. "It's okay if you'd rather not…"

"It's not that," said Phoenix after a moment. He gazed up at Miles sincerely, a bit of mischief and excitement glinting in his eyes. "I've never given a guy a blowjob before. Do you think you could tell me how?"

Miles swallowed hard, petting Phoenix's hair and urging his head between his legs. "First, lick it a little bit. Ah… yes, like that. Then lick the whole l…length. Mmhm. N… now, put your mouth all the way around it, and su… oh god. Yes. That's right, suck it." The fingers that at first gently petted became tangled, tugging and insistent. Miles rolled his hips into that wet warmth, and Phoenix moaned. _He's incredibly receptive,_ Miles observed. _Good. He'll learn quickly._

Despite his lack of experience, Phoenix sucked cock amazingly well. He even possessed that special quality of truly enjoying the act. Miles enjoyed watching him squirm, knowing how much he wanted released and knowing Phoenix cared for him too much to draw any attention away from the task at hand. Or mouth, so to speak.

Miles came loudly, something he never, ever did. In the moments afterward, they lay on the couch panting. Phoenix laughed softly against Miles's belly.

"I can't believe we just did this on this couch," Miles griped. "Do you have any idea how much this costs to dry clean?" He wiggled out from underneath Phoenix, completely naked, and stomped over to the kitchen. "My tea is ruined, it's been steeping for… two hours now."

"You are possibly the least romantic person on the planet," Phoenix complained, sitting up and glaring at him from the couch.

"I'm sure I could think of several people who are less romantic than me, if you're really looking to start an argument," Miles pointed out.

"I'm sure that's not what I'm looking to do," Phoenix didn't do sarcasm so well after rigorous sex acts.

"Then we should go to bed," said Miles simply, stepping back over and offering Phoenix a hand up.

"Bed sounds great," said Phoenix, stifling a yawn.

"Don't get sleepy on me. We're not done tonight."

"We're not? But…"

"It's my turn," said Miles, putting an arm around Phoenix. This time when he kissed his neck he had free reign, and immediately bit that sacred spot that turned Phoenix on like a power switch. Phoenix shuddered pleasantly, feeling his knees go weak.

"You love me, right?" Miles pushed Phoenix onto his bed. Phoenix could see ruffles but it was hard to focus on anyone but the man in front of him, profoundly naked and rooting through the drawer of his dresser.

"I've only said it a dozen times tonight."

"Well, you know I love you too, right?"

"Please call me Phoenix, I just gave you a blow job I think we're on a first name ba—"

"I meant that as in 'correct,'" Miles interjected.

"You love me too?"

"Yes." Miles looked at him as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Utterly."

"I thought you might," said Phoenix, a slow grin taking his face.

"I've never been with someone I loved before. I think I'm rather looking forward to it." Pulling several things out of the drawer, he turned around, fussing and fastening this around his waist.

"Miles?" Phoenix asked. When his lover turned around, he was met with a rigid cock of a rather unique color. "…Pink. _Everything_ is pink with you."

"I've told you a million times, it's not pink," said Miles. "Now get on your hands and knees."


End file.
